Down the depths of the laundry sky,
vaulted with such whistling, confused
by the pleasing crop of the wind’s hair.
Beside the aquarium television’s bulbs,
and drying robes sanctioned for the tub:
Today is a harbor of minutes and hands.
Your shadow, like a fond father, cinches
the seam and shape of facts, recorded time.
The buildings prescribe words, no blame.
Walk out in the numb sun. Confidences?
Even the carry-a-long target is cement.
Today is a harbor of minutes and hands.
JUNE 2009